HOUSE WITH THE CEDAR SHINGLES: A Flickering Candle
by cuthalion
Summary: In the summer after the birth of his daughter Damrod has a terrible accident. His injuries are bad enough to cost his life, and his wife Noerwen has to take drastic measures to save him. A WINTER FIRE tale, written for the birthday of a friend.
1. Waiting for help

**A flickering candle  
**by _Cúthalion_

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

For rabidsamfan, April 2007

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

_**1. Waiting for help**_

_Ithilien, in summer 1429_

She knew it the moment she saw the messenger's pale, disturbed face.

He stumbled into the clearing and came to a slithering halt before her, helplessly searching for words that wouldn't come. She had returned only minutes before from gathering fresh sage and marigold, to guard her daughter who slept on a big woolen blanket in the shadow of the trees. Now shock came down upon her like a sharp sword, cutting the day in two halves of light and darkness.

"A few men were felling trees in the woods behind the residence. They struggled to bring down a rotten oak, and they still don't know how this could happen…"

_Damrod. Oh no. Oh good Eru, no._

"…but the tree fell in the wrong direction as your husband rode by. His horse shied and threw him, he had no chance to get away."

She felt the breeze on her face like the slow caress of a warm hand. Her feet made a step towards the messenger, and suddenly the sharp-sweet scent of scrunched peppermint leaves rose about her like a cloud. Someone spoke and with a kind of dull surprise she recognized her own calm voice.

"Is he dead?"

"N… no. But he has been unconscious for almost an hour. The men brought him on their cart to the residence."

_Alive. She had not lost him yet._

She turned around and picked up Lírulin's warm body. The baby snuggled against her shoulder in drowsy satisfaction. She had nursed the child half an hour ago… there was enough time for her to reach Prince Faramir's palace and to get a general idea of Damrod's state before the little one got hungry again. It was only two short miles, but still her hands trembled with a helpless mixture of fear and impatience.

The messenger gave her a smile meant to reassure her.

"Don't worry, Lady Noerwen," he said. "I have brought my horse, and she will easily carry more than one rider… and your daughter, too."

She followed him quickly and they had soon reached a small, sunny clearing where a brown mare was peacefully nibbling the short, soft grass. The messenger took Lírulin from her; she mounted the horse, waited until he had returned the baby to her arms and felt him swing into the saddle behind her. They rode through a shadow-play of green and gold. Lírulin stirred, gave a sigh and fell back asleep, her cheek against the healer's breast. The mare fell into a swift trot, and soon she could see the marble walls of the palace in Emyn Arnen rise before them.

_Don't let him die. Please._

vvvvv

When she stepped into the entrance hall, the Princess of Ithilien was already waiting, a slender figure, and straight as a spear. Noerwen bowed before her.

"Thank you for sending your messenger," she said, "he brought me here very quickly. Where is my husband?"

"In a room upstairs," the Princess said. "Erion cares for him: I have already sent for help from Minas Tirith as he could scarcely do any surgery if it is needed."

Erion was the healer of the princely household; a quiet, well-trained man with a profound knowledge of ancient cures and the effects of herbs. Noerwen always found his counsel very helpful, but she had to agree with Éowyn's opinion – he would certainly not be able to do anything that required using a scalpel.

"Would you…?"

"Of course." The Princess took a little silver bell from the table beside her and rang it. A small door at the far end of the hall opened and a young woman appeared.

"This is Alassiel – I believe you know each other."

"We do indeed," the young woman replied with a smile. "Lady Noerwen was kind enough to heal my left arm when I broke it last year." She turned to Noerwen, giving a small bow. "You might want to leave your daughter with me, Mylady… I will bring her at once as soon as she needs to be fed. But we could also ask one of the room maids to nurse her; three of them have given birth during the last few months and would be more than willing to be of help."

Noerwen gazed down at the sleeping baby.

"I don't know yet," she finally said. "I guess it depends on how… how occupied I am in the next few days." She bowed her head, kissing Lírulin's cheek and deeply inhaling the sweet scent of the baby's skin.

"Oh… you shouldn't burden yourself with any decision yet, then," Éowyn said. "I'll guide you to your husband's room now."

Alassiel reached out and took the little girl from her mother. Noerwen watched her as she left the room, rocking the child in her arms and silently humming, then she turned away with a sigh and followed the Princess upstairs.

The sickroom was spacious and cool. Long curtains shut the midday sun out, and the big bed was covered with white linen sheets. Erion the healer stood bowed over the man who lay there without moving.

"Erion," the Princess gently said. "Lady Noerwen is here."

The man turned around; he had a narrow face with fair skin, cheeks and nose covered with sun freckles. Some strange coincidence of parentage and heredity made the descendant of a long row of gondorean healers look as if he had been raised on the plains of Rohan; flaxen hair fell over his shoulders, tamed to a long, thick braid hanging down his back.

"Your Highness." He bowed. "Noerwen."

Noerwen stepped beside the bed and looked down on her husband. He had been stripped of his clothes and she could see bruises and dried blood on his bare chest. Angry, deep red lines showed where the ribcage arched under the pale skin; Damrod's face was waxen, his eyes closed.

"Has he regained consciousness since he was brought here?" she asked, her voice deceptively calm.

"Yes… for a few minutes when we removed his shirt and jerkin," Erion said, his gaze fixed on Noerwens hands; they followed the scratches, gently tracing the regular, discolored lines over the ribs. "He was in great pain; we gave him poppy syrup, and he hasn't come to himself ever since."

"How long?"

"About half an hour now," Erion cleared his throat. "His head seems uninjured, if that is what you fear. I have examined his skull and could find no bump; the skin is not wounded, and there are no spongy spots whatsoever."

"Good news." Noerwen replied, relaxing slightly. "But more than one of his ribs are broken, and they may have pierced the lung."

Their eyes met, and Noerwen saw a short, nervous flicker in the healer's gaze that was instantly hidden. She bit her lip.

"You have also examined his chest, haven't you?"

"Of course," Again that nervous flicker. "But the finding was… erh… ambiguous."

Noerwen sighed. "There is only one way for me to see clearly, I suppose."

She pulled a wooden chair to the bed, sat down and laid a finger of her left hand on her husband's chest. The Princess and Erion watched as she tapped on that finger with the index finger of her right hand, leaning in as closely as possible and listening with furrowed brow. She repeated the procedure again and again, letting the finger wander all over Damrod's skin from the ribs up to his neck. Finally she looked up, giving Erion a sharp gaze.

"There is free fluid where none should be," she stated grimly, "and in various places. Not only three ribs are broken, the lungs are affected, too. He's obviously bleeding inside." She stared at Erion's pale face and downcast eyes. "What did you think? Did you honestly want to spare me the facts? I'm no anxious damsel, for heaven's sake, and this is my husband… I should know exactly what is amiss, or I won't be able to help him!"

"The healer from Minas Tirith will most certainly be here by forenoon tomorrow," Éowyn chipped in, her voice soothing and firm. "The messenger I sent has taken the fastest horse in our stables."

"I am really sorry, Noerwen," Erion murmured, his fair skin flushed with deep embarrassment. "I… I should have known better."

"You indeed should have," Noerwen stated, slightly moderating her tone. "And I shouldn't have yelled at you, my friend. Would you be so kind and go to my house, to fetch my bag?"

Erion gave her a wide, flashing smile.

"Of course I will."

He left the room, and the tension trickled out of Noerwen's body. She bowed her head, overwhelmed by a sudden exhaustion. When she raised her gaze again, she turned to the Princess, her hand still on Damrod's chest.

"I have to apologize, Your Grace," she said with a tired voice. "That was a rather unseemly behavior."

"_Very_ unseemly," the Princess replied, a twinkle in her blue eyes. "And if you insist on using my titles, I shall take my revenge and address you as 'Healer of Ithilien' from now on. My name is Èowyn."

The Healer of Ithilien gave a weak chuckle.

"And now," the Princess announced, "I will go to the kitchen and tell the cooks to prepare a good meal for you." She smiled, and then grazed the silent figure on the bed with troubled eyes. "You will need all the strength you can muster."

vvvvv

It was far past midnight. The light of two candle holders filled the silent room with a warm, golden light. Noerwen sat beside the bed, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She had just nursed Lírulin and brought her to bed in the room that had once housed Prince Elboron's cradle. Now she felt Damrod's brow. It was hot and dry, and he murmured something incomprehensible, turning his head on the pillow.

"My love, do you hear me?" she whispered. "It's me, Noerwen. I'm here."

_He was developing a fever. Of course he was. He had pierced lungs, broken ribs and blood in his chest cavity. It would take a miracle to avoid what was happening to him now. _

For the first time in nearly ten years she felt a burning wish for the medical opportunities left behind when she was brought to the _Pengolodh's_ world for the second – and hopefully last – time. Medical opportunities the language she'd always spoken with such unbelievable ease had not even words for, and abilities she simply did not possess.

They had been spared of worse injuries since her return; only a broken arm nearly one year ago, some harmless flesh wounds, more or less easy to cure, and Damrod's shoulder which had the tendency to dislocate at unexpected times. It had become a kind of family jest, for their love had begun when she set it back in 1419, during the siege of Minas Tirith.

They had been incredibly lucky. _And now they obviously had to pay the price._

The door opened and Éowyn appeared on the doorstep, two servants on her heels. They carried a narrow cot, a pillow and a pile of blankets, brought it inside and placed it close to the bed.

"I thought I'd give you the chance to lie down if you need," the Princess said. "Would you like to have something to eat? Or a glass of wine?"

"No wine," Noerwen replied. "I have to keep a clear head. Perhaps some water… or tea?"

"Tea, then." Éowyn reached out and touched her shoulder. "How is he?"

"Developing a fever," Noerwen said with a small sigh. "And I fear it will rise until we are able to remove the fluid in his chest. I'm certain that there are infections, and his lungs might collapse… that is what I fear most right now."

The Princess frowned. "Collapse?"

"The lungs are like two bellows, filled with air," Noerwen answered. "If one of them is pierced, it collapses like a tent when the poles are removed. The other lung – the second bellow – is able to take over for a while, but this is an exhausting and dangerous thing. And if the second lung collapses, too…"

"I understand." Éowyn nodded slowly. "I must say, you have certainly a very distinct way of explaining things."

"Very flattering, thank you," Noerwen gave a small bow. "Right now I'd rather the skills of a trained surgeon. Herbs won't be of much help here."

"Is there anything you can do – besides giving him brews, trying to ease his breathing and to bring the fever down with cold wrappings?"

"I could open his chest with a small cut and stick a tube in to drain the fluids out… but I only watched such a procedure once a long time ago and never done it myself."

Éowyn blinked.

"_Oh."_ She was silent for quite a while. "And I suppose you hope you won't be forced to do it this time – and in this case."

"Exactly." Noerwen said, feeling a cold shudder running down her spine. "But I will do it – if the healer doesn't arrive in time."

"Then let us hope that he is here by tomorrow morning – which he should be." Éowyn said with palpable fervor. "Until then he is in the best hands he could be." She smiled at the woman beside the bed. "Try to sleep, Noerwen. We have still one night to overcome."

She left the room, closing the door silently behind her. A few minutes later one of the maids came in, carrying a tray with a mug of steaming tea and two slices of dark, generously buttered bread. She wished her a good night, curtsied and went out again.

Noerwen took a bite from the bread and thankfully sipped the sweetened tea. She lay down on the cot, drew one of the blankets over herself and let her head sink back into the ample softness of the pillow. Then, following a sudden impulse, she searched for Damrod's hand on the sheet. It felt hot and limp when she closed her fingers around it.

_I remember a night when we lay side by side like this… only then I was the one injured, and you had come to watch over me. I will always keep in my heart what you said: "Don't be afraid – anyone who wants to hurt you will first have to get past me."_

_I love you, Damrod of Ithilien, my husband, my heart. I love you so much._

_Don't leave me._

vvvvv

She woke early in the morning from something she wasn't able to identify at once… a soft rattle that didn't come from outside. She opened her eyes and turned her head, and then she saw that Damrod was shaking so violently that the whole bed frame was trembling, too.

She practically jumped from the cot and leaned over him, touching his brow. It was burning hot. She could see his eyes moving rapidly under the closed lids, and then he took a laborious, hissing gulp of air and started to cough. She slid her arm under his back, pulling him up until he half sat on the bed. Heat was radiating from his flesh as from a hearth fire in winter, and she bit her lip, fighting to keep her composure and the tattered remnants of any remaining professional calmness. She needed cold water or ice packs, she needed… sweet Eru, she needed the healer from Minas Tirith, _at once. _

The door opened. One of the younger maids stood on the doorstep, a delicate girl with a cloud of frizzy, dark hair and eyes the colour of wet bluebells.

"Mylady Noerwen," she began, "do you…"

The bluebell eyes turned wide and round with shock at the sight of the woman holding the panting, limp figure of a man seemingly in agony in her arms.

"Water," Noerwen snapped, "fetch me two buckets of water from the well in the White Lady's rose garden. And if there's any river ice left in the cellars, bring it, too – _now."_

The maid opened and closed her mouth, then she turned around and vanished. Noerwen could hear the clatter of her wooden clogs all the way down the long corridor.

"N…noerwen? Love?"

_His_ voice, hoarse and thin. She stared down at Damrod's face. He was looking at her, his gaze clouded by exhaustion, fever and pain, but he was obviously clear enough to know who she was.

"Shsh, my heart." She spoke close to his ear, feeling his rapid, shallow breath against her cheek. "You had a bad accident, love. Do you remember anything of it?"

"There… there was a tree…" His teeth were chattering. "And Morningstar shied… she… I don't know…"

"Never mind. A healer from Minas Tirith is already on the way. And we're taking good care of you." She spoke with quiet certainty, silencing every doubt in her heart, her only aim to reassure him. Finally, she felt him relax in her arms.

"Lírulin…?"

Now the smile in her voice was no disguise.

"She sleeps in Elboron's former nursery, with no fewer than three maids vying for the honour of feeding her and carrying her around."

"Good. That's… good." He coughed again, wincing violently. "…_hurts." _

"I know," she whispered. "I know."

"How bad…?" A thin croak; his voice and consciousness were fading quickly.

"Three ribs are broken, and your lungs are injured," she said softly, "but we will help you, my love, I promise." His eyes fluttered closed. "I promise."

The door opened again; the maid had returned, followed by a guardian with two buckets full of water… and the White Lady, fully dressed.

"I met Elwen here when I was on my way to the stables," Éowyn said, a deep crease between her eyebrows. "She dissolved into tears upon seeing me and told me that the ranger upstairs is dying."

"Well, he's not," Noerwen gave back; Elwen made an involuntary step backwards, dabbing her puffy eyes with a corner of her apron. "But his fever is very high, and I fear one lung has already collapsed; if it hasn't yet, it will probably very soon. I wish the healer was here, Your G… _Éowyn._"

"This morning, hopefully," Éowyn said. "I made it clear the matter was very urgent."

"Thank you."

"One of the servants will bring the crushed ice from the cellar," the Princess continued. "and the healer will be guided to this room as soon as he has arrived."

"Thank you. -- Éowyn?"

Noerwen gave a weak smile.

"When he arrives, give him breakfast first. He shouldn't try to do surgery on my husband with nothing in his stomach."

vvvvv

Damrod was wrapped in linen sheets, his body covered with half smashed chunks of ice to fight the fever. Elwen – who had calmed down meanwhile and dried her eyes – came and brought a tray with tea, fresh bread and fruits from the orchard. Noerwen forced herself to drink the tea, to eat an apple and a slice of buttered bread before she returned to her ceaseless watch, regularly checking Damrod's temperature and listening to his laborious breath.

An hour later there were steps outside the room, the easy footfalls of someone walking on soft leather soles. She raised her head, waiting nervously for the next person to arrive… hopefully the one who would be able to help where she couldn't.

But it was not the healer. The figure of a man appeared like a silhouette in the bright morning light; then he stepped forward and Noerwen saw a fair face with keen, grey eyes, long, golden hair, braided back behind pointy ears and a familiar, beautifully shaped mouth, smiling at her. She jumped on her feet, instinctively trying to smooth her hair and skirt, and bowed deeply.

"Mylord Legolas!"

"My dear Noerwen, I'm glad to see you again," he said, taking her hand and bowing over it in unfeigned kindness and courtesy. His gaze turned to the bed and the bright eyes filled with shadows. "But I must admit that I regret the circumstances. – How is he?"

"We're trying to bring the fever down, but he is injured in a way that is beyond my skill to treat. I'm desperately awaiting a healer from Minas Tirith."

"I had hoped to find Lord Faramir here, but he hasn't returned from the campaign yet," the elf said, stepping over to the bed and touching the brow of the man who was lying there under a thick layer of ice. Noerwen watched the expression on his face change like the drifting clouds on a windy spring morning. After a while he removed his fingers and gazed back at her, the ghost of a smile curling his lips.

"You may have reached the limit of your skill," he said, "but his _féa_ – his spirit - is fighting against the darkness with all his might, and he is far from giving up. The cord between you and he is as strong as if wrought of steel."

"Thank you for giving me hope," Noerwen replied, "I must confess I am afraid."

Ancient eyes in a young, boyish face looked at her.

"You would be foolish if you were not," Legolas said. "But take care that the fear doesn't overwhelm you and keep you from doing what must be done."

"If the healer arrives in time, I won't have to do _anything," _Noerwen said, a hint of sharpness in her tired voice.

As if her last words had been a prompt, the door opened again. For the second time that morning, it was Éowyn, but she came alone. The Princess' gaze made Noerwen feel for the back of the wooden chair and sit down before her knees grew weak.

"The healer…?"

"Will eventually come," Éowyn said, her tone terse and dry. "But he will most certainly be late. The King, his Steward and the army have returned from their campaign in Harad, and they have sent their wounded ahead… many wounded, and the Southron warriors have used poisoned daggers and arrows. The staff in the Houses is up to their ears in work, trying to heal mysteriously festering injuries. They can't easily spare anyone."

Noerwen closed her eyes and felt the light touch of a hand on her shoulder.

"Faramir and Estel," came Legolas' voice, a strangely soothing sound through the droning in her ears. "are they wounded, too?"

"No," the Princess retorted, "no, they aren't. But they won't be in Minas Tirith before the day after tomorrow… if you had intended to rely on the hands of the King."

Noerwen rubbed her brow.

"The only hands I have to rely upon seem to be my own," she murmured with a grimace, returning to the bed. When she leaned over her husband, he began to cough again. His eyes flew open for a moment and he gave a deep, painful moan. Noerwen hastily pushed the chunks of ice aside and drew back the sheet: she laid her palm on the chest, following the strangely laboured rise and fall of the ribcage with deep concentration.

Finally she looked up.

"One lung has collapsed, as I presumed would happen," she said, her voice sharp and thin. "If I don't do something, and quickly, Damrod's heart will suffer and he will most certainly die before any healer from Minas Tirith ever has the chance to examine him."

"And do you know how to save him?" Legolas said, his gaze still calm and attentive.

"You don't understand!" It was an outburst of despair. "As I told the Princess yesterday evening, I only watched the procedure that is needed once in my life – without participating - and I never did it myself. And more than that, I would need certain items that are simply not available in this … that are simply not available _here." _

She bit her lips; the hands in her lap were shaking.

"What exactly is it that you need?" That was Éowyn.

A long pause while Noerwen was furiously pondering the situation, trying to keep her composure and find solutions while a part of her longed to throw herself over the unmoving body of her husband and to wail in open, unchecked panic.

"A metal tube, the tip sharpened, if possible," she finally said. "connected to a kind of hose, flexible enough to be stuck into a bottle with water." Suddenly she froze, a strange expression on her pale face. "What if I… sweet Eru, we could probably…" She turned to the White Lady, her eyes blazing with newly fuelled hope. "Do you remember the cherry wine I made last year?" she asked. "The glassblower made a balloon for me to ferment the juice in, and the blacksmith forged a tube to suck off the superfluous foam. He also managed a hose from tightly twisted wire to let the foam and the bubbling yeast drain away… heaven and earth, this is _exactly_ what we need!"

The princess – who hadn't really been able to follow the course of the healer's thoughts – decided to ask the only one question that seemed most important now.

"Where is that tube and hose to be found?"

"In my herb barn," Noerwen said, again jumping on her feet. "But it would be of little use to send someone to fetch it… I need to go myself."

Legolas stepped forward. "I am sure the White Lady can call for Master Erion to keep watch over our poor friend while I bring you to your house and back again, Noerwen," he said with a confident smile. "You will find out that even with an elf and a woman on his back my good Arod may still run like the wind."


	2. Fighting for a life

_**2. Fighting for a life**_

It took less than an hour for Noerwen and the elf prince to return; Erion was waiting beside the bed, regarding the items they had brought with keen interest.

To Noerwens luck, the blacksmith of Emyn Arnen could not only forge simple tools for daily use, like scythes and horseshoes, he had also created the intricate trellises made of cast iron for the windows of the palace, and the huge gate, showing the emblem of Rohan and the White Tree. He was open-minded enough to try something new when given the chance, and he had followed the healer's descriptions as scrupulously as possible.

Erion turned tube and hose between his hands.

"I still have only a vague idea how you are planning to use these things," he confessed. "How will they be able to help?"

"I will make a cut to open his chest cavity. Then I'll stick the tube in to drain off the free liquid in there… blood, I suppose, and pus, if we wait too long and things get even worse than I presume. That should help his lung to unfold again and give us time." Noerwen sighed, unconsciously drawing a horizontal line over Damrod's pale skin with the tip of her index finger. "He is still strong now, but after a few more days of this he might lose the fight." Her hand laid still, fingers spread over the spot where his heart was beating.

"Are you sure?" Legolas looked at her and their eyes met. For a long moment the room was very silent; if there had been any conversation between them, it was wordless.

"No, I'm not – as you know very well," Noerwen finally said. "But I'm too afraid to hesitate."

"Better go to battle than to sit in a trap, waiting for the enemy," Legolas smiled grimly, his gaze distant and as bottomless as an infinite well. Noerwen wondered how many battles he had seen, his thought stretching back to an age when elves where much more than an awe-inspiring, bitter-sweet memory of long lost power and glory. The sudden remembrance how old he really was made her dizzy. But then he smirked, and the immortal warrior turned to a mischievous lad.

"Gimli would heartily agree," he said. "He thinks the world of you, and he calls you the 'fearless firehead', if you remember."

"Only because I yelled at him and called him a stubborn, deaf mule of a dwarf when he refused to let me look at his leg because he thought I would be unable to treat it right."

Legolas laughed.

"Your husband had a broken arm and you were close to giving birth; he simply thought you occupied enough as it was."

"I miss him," Noerwen said, and it was true. The sturdy presence of Gimli son of Glóin would have been more than uplifting right now.

"I might stay here while you use this," Legolas offered, pointing to the tube and hose on the small table beside the bed. "I certainly am no healer, but I could keep watch over his pulse and the strength of his spirit if you wish me to."

"That would be extremely helpful," Noerwen said. "But we will have to clean the tube, the hose and my knife in boiling water first, and then wash our hands, first with soap and then with brandy. And you, Erion, should be here, too, for I might need someone to dab the blood away – and whatever else comes out as soon as I have made the cut."

Servants brought boiling water, a bottle of brandy and a second bottle with a wide, thick bottom. Noerwen filled it with water from one of the buckets and placed in on the floor beside the bed.

"The tube will help to drain off the liquid," Noerwen explained. She ran both hands through her long, copper red tresses. "Which reminds me that I should braid my hair back to get it out of the way… and to order a second tube and a second hose for the future."

While her instruments were boiling, Noerwen gently coaxed Damrod back to a state of consciousness that made it possible to spoon a certain amount of poppy syrup into his mouth.

"He has to lie perfectly still," she said, turning to Legolas. "The worst thing I can imagine is my husband sitting up during this little makeshift surgery and ripping the tube out while I'm still trying to suck out blood or air."

Finally tube, hose and knife were clean, and lying on a tray that was covered with a clean cloth. It was Erion who braided Noerwen's hair into a long plait and then washed his hands with soap, water and alcohol. Then he patiently waited for Legolas and Noerwen to do the same. Noerwen dabbed pure alcohol on Damrod's bare chest. Outside the room, two servants kept watch, ready to be sent for fresh, boiling water if necessary.

"Well…" Noerwen slowly said, gazing down at the knife. "I guess I have no excuse not to begin, have I?"

"The only excuse would be if this was utterly wrong and would only do him more harm rather than save his life," Legolas replied, his clear eyes fixed on her face. "Will you wait for relief – or will you fight?"

"I will fight", Noerwen answered after a short pause. "I have to."

She pushed the end of the hose through the bottle's neck until it hung in the water. Then she took the knife and lowered the blade until it touched Damrod's skin. For a moment she closed her eyes; her mind was empty.

_What for heaven's sake was she doing here?_

Suddenly there was a deep voice inside her head, using words in a language she hadn't heard in more than fifteen years. The voice was perfectly clear. _I'll show you what to do, Sabrina. Imagine a line from armpit to armpit, lass… along the nipples. And if you cut, cut over the ribs and never underneath, or you will do more damage than you could ever imagine._ She didn't remember the surgeon's name from her second year, but for a fleeting second she saw his face in her mind's eye – piercing blue eyes, a dark mop of hair and a neatly trimmed beard, his explanations as sharp and precise as the scalpel in his hand.

_Now._

She felt the blade glide through the skin. There was a strange, whistling sound, and the first drops of blood welled up, not bright red but dark and viscous, filling the air with the heavy smell of iron and the stale must of illness.

"Hold him down, Erion. He must _not _move."

This calm, cool voice had to be hers, Noerwen thought with a kind of weak surprise. She drew the knife back and pushed one finger inside the small opening. _Eru, help me not to hurt him even more_… and then the tube appeared in her field of vision, held be the long, slender hands of the elf. She blessed Legolas' quick-wittedness, removed her finger and pushed the tube inside the wound as gently as possible. Then she leaned back, turning her gaze to the bottle again. The water slowly discoloured to a brownish red.

"Look at that!" she said. "Blessed Lady of the Stars, it actually works!"

She leaned over Damrod again, studying his face. Perhaps it was nothing more than her hopeful imagination, but it seemed he breathed easier.

"We have to keep the wound open, to let the tube do its work," she said, kissing his brow. "Now all we can do is to wait and hope that this stabilizes him until the healer is here."

"Remarkable," Erion said, staring at the tube and hose with a mixture of confusion and wonder. "Absolutely remarkable."

"It will only be remarkable if he doesn't develop a lung infection because we weren't able to keep things perfectly clean," Noerwen murmured, nervously kneading her fingers. "We must not leave him alone, at least not during the next twenty-four hours. And if there is more liquid, we will have to change the water bottle, and…" She rose from the chair. Legolas saw that she was swaying, the blood suddenly leaving her face.

"_Noerwen."_ His voice was gentle but firm. "I would like to guide you to Elboron's nursery now; you should sit down in a nice, stuffed chair for a while, Lírulin in your arms, and then you should rest. We will call you as soon as there is any change, and we will wake you as soon as the healer arrives."

Noerwen opened her mouth to protest, but whatever she intended to say, it was cut off by a huge yawn. She shot a last, hesitant gaze to the silent figure on the bed, then she slowly made her way to the door, followed by the elf.

They went to side by side to the nursery, a bright, friendly room in the eastern wing of the palace, and Legolas left the exhausted Healer of Ithilien in the capable hands of Alassiel and another maid. When he returned half an hour later and softly opened the door to peer in, the room was empty… save for Noerwen, sitting in a big, comfortable rocking chair, the baby cuddled against her breast. Mother and daughter were fast asleep.

vvvvv

For the rest of the day Legolas and Erion took turns watching over Damrod. His breathing definitely grew easier, but most of the time the fever still kept him in deep unconsciousness. In the rare moments he more or less came back to himself, they gave him water, thin herb brews and broth, and when the last winter ice had melted, they made wrappings with the cold water from the well. Noerwen came back late in the afternoon, visibly refreshed after a few hours of undisturbed rest, and in the evening the healer from Minas Tirith finally found his way to Emyn Arnen. Éowyn brought him to Damrod's sickroom.

It was a haggard, elderly man with a bald head, his impressive, bushy eyebrows making up for his general lack of hair: they rose as high as his forehead while he examined the tube and hose and the bottle where Erion had just changed the water.

"Strange idea," he said with an astonishingly high voice, "very strange idea, Lady, and I guess we have to be thankful that you didn't manage to kill your own husband."

Erion opened his mouth to say something, but a quick glance from the Princess made him shut it again.

"What would _you _have done, Master Healer?" Noerwen asked, her voice delusively meek.

"I would have certainly waited longer to take any measures as… er… _drastic_ as these," the healer lectured, raising one educational forefinger. "Opening his chest cavity was a great risk, especially if you've never done this before. You might have pierced his liver."

"Well, I didn't." Noerwen retorted, her lips forming a thin line. "And after one of his lungs collapsed, the only choice I had was to take drastic measures… or to let him die."

The healer leaned over Damrod, examining him thoroughly. She kept close to the bed, following each movement. Despite his arrogance, his ministrations were gentle and skilled, and whatever he thought about her, he clearly knew what he was doing. But he could not help noticing that the chest cavity was free, that both lungs were now more or less working as they should, and that the man he had been sent to rescue had already been rescued, though not by his hands. Finally he turned to Noerwen, eyeing her from head to toe with a certain displeasure.

"I must admit that this is not a bad result for someone who has never done this before," he sourly stated, apparently taking Noerwen's surprising success as a personal affront. "Still, where would we be if each and any layperson presumed to take the difficult art of healing into their own hands?" He sniffed haughtily. "Curing someone by taking up the knife is not the same as making coin by knowing your herbs."

His last sentence tipped the balance and brought Noerwen's battered self-restraint after the past two dreadful days to an abrupt end.

"You don't know anything about me," she said, her usually warm voice dangerously cold and soft. "I will grant you the knowledge and experience that brought you, but you came dangerously late, and I saw enough suffering and death during the Ring War that I could not sit here with my hands in my lap, waiting for help. I have seen the flight of the Nazgûl and the fall of the Great Gate in Minas Tirith. I have cared for the wounded withering under the Black Breath and held the hand of a warrior from Rohan who called me 'mother' while he was dying. What did _you _do? I knew most of the men and women who were on duty in the Houses of Healing then, and I don't remember your face!"

The healer paled visibly. None of them noticed Legolas who had soundlessly slipped into the room and melted with the shadows in a corner behind the bed.

"My old friend Mardil would be surprised to hear what you think of the importance of herblore," Noerwen continued, her green eyes shooting thunderbolts. "Most of what I know about the use of herbs I have learned from him, and I will never be able to thank him enough."

"You… you know _Mardil?"_ the healer squawked, paling even more. The old herb master had retired three years ago, making way for a younger successor and enjoying a late, unexpected marriage with the remarkable and quarrelsome Ioreth, but he was still a legendary figure in Minas Tirith.

"Yes, I do. I had the honour of assisting him during the siege and afterwards," Noerwen said, her voice still cold. "Does that elevate my worth in your eyes, Master Healer? I have learned that it is the deed that counts, not the names and the reputation of those you call friends." She turned to Éowyn. "Would you excuse me, Your Grace? I… I need some fresh air."

She left the room with quickly and hurried down the corridor and the stairs leading to the entrance hall. Deep golden light streamed in through the coloured windows, spilling an ocean of rainbows on the polished marble floor. But Noerwen ignored it, heading blindly for the door and passing the guards without a greeting. A few minutes later she had reached the herb garden and walked along the beds, angrily wiping her eyes._ Lavender, Lady's mantle, sage and foxglove… the rich, sweet aroma of goldenrod and thyme…_ She took a deep breath, slowly calming down, and strangely comforted by the abundance of scents she loved and knew so well.

"Noerwen?"

She saw Legolas coming from the direction of the main entrance and awaited him.

"I know I should have been silent," she said before the elven prince could even open his mouth. "I shouldn't have insulted that pompous dullard, and I will never learn the courtly behavior that I need to manage a situation like this without losing my temper. Is… is the Princess very angry?"

"Yes, she is," Legolas said, and she felt her heart sink into her boots. "She is indeed… but with that… erm… 'pompous dullard', not with you. When I left, she was just – how do you say it? – 'giving him an earful'." He grinned. "When he found out that he had managed to fall out with the Healer of Ithilien and the slayer of the Witch King at the same time, he turned positively _green." _

Noerwen felt a hesitant smile tug at the corners of her mouth. "He may be a pompous dullard," she said, "but he is a good healer, whether I like him or not. I should have been more… patient."

She walked a few steps and stood in front of a blooming rosemary bed, her head tilted backwards. She knew that he watched her silently, and that he was most certainly able to feel the cold waves of a belated shock that made her shiver. Suddenly she turned around, her eyes so dark that they seemed black.

"I nearly lost Damrod," she said. "I nearly lost him, Legolas."

"He is alive," he reminded her. "You saved him."

"Yes. But still…"

"Do you remember the day we first met?" he asked. "We came back from that skirmish near the Morgul vale, your husband had a broken arm and Gimli a broken leg."

Noerwen's lips twitched. "Yes, I remember. I yelled at Gimli who didn't want me to treat his leg, snapped at Damrod who was afraid that I might go into labor right on the spot, and I ignored you."

Legolas laughed softly.

"And in return you ignored my scandalous behaviour – as you have ever since – took my hand and then gave me the most curious glance I've ever seen."

His grey eyes turned to her, and again she saw the unfathomable years behind that fair, youthful face.

"I can sense the spirit of mortal men like the flame of a flickering candle," he said, "coming and going like a fleeting blaze of light. I thought I was accustomed to that particular strangeness, to that taste of transience and the mixture of joy and sorrow that fills my heart when I meet someone who could become a friend… but I suppose I never will."

"You didn't know that we would be friends." She looked at him, remembering a conversation they'd had not long after their first meeting. "But you knew that I didn't come from this world."

"Yes." He smiled. "I saw the same flame, but it had a different colour."

"Indeed? You must have been surprised." Noerwen said in a pensive tone.

"The human race has never ceased to surprise me." Legolas sighed. "And there is still something I have to apologize for."

"What might that be?" She furrowed her brow. "As long as I have known you, milord, you have shown me nothing but kindness."

"Oh… so we are back to 'milord', then?" Legolas grinned, settling on the lawn beside a blooming rosemary bed with the easy grace of a big cat. "Come, sit down beside me – and I would prefer my name, Noerwen of Ithilien. As would Éowyn."

"I know. I called her 'Your Grace' again… but I was beside myself." She wiped her brow. "What is it you think you have to apologize for?"

He looked at her.

"Do you remember what I said when I found out where you came from?"

A long moment of silence.

"Yes," she finally replied, "and quite clearly. You said: 'What whimsy of the Valar brought you here?'"

"Which was impudent," he said, taking her hand and kissing it with a kind of solemn reverence. "And rather brazen."

"You are forgiven." She gave him a tired smile. "I thought for more than two years that counting on a fulfilment of my love for Damrod of Ithilien would be both, impudent _and_ brazen. And yet I was allowed to return."

"Which is exactly what your husband said to me, the morning after your daughter was born," Legolas said, following two swifts as they flew circles of over the roof of the palace. "I was wise enough not to repeat my remark for his ears, this time deciding to listen rather than to speak. And he told me about you… about the two years he had spent hoping and waiting that you might return one day. He thought it a miracle that you actually did. He called you his 'answered prayer'."

"And he is mine," she whispered, biting her lip. "You don't, perhaps, have a spare handkerchief?"

"No, I don't." the elf said, jumping on his feet and reaching out to help her up. "And we should return to the palace now. The healer has certainly finished his work by now."

"He has turned tail and run, you mean," Noerwen retorted, shooting him an ironic gaze. "But you are right; I have embarrassed the poor man enough for one evening."

They walked down to the main entrance in companionable silence; when they reached the sickroom in the first floor, the healer was nowhere to be seen, and a dinner tray was waiting on the table. The room filled with the delicious smells of roasted chicken, vegetables and spiced wine.

Noerwen stepped over to the tray, filled a glass for Legolas and a second one for herself, and lifted it to her mouth.

"_Love…?" _

She spun around and, with a lightning-fast movement, Legolas caught the glass before it was dashed on the floor. She sank to her knees beside the bed and found her husband looking at her from under heavy lids, a smile in his eyes.

"Hello, my heart," he croaked. "I have missed you." He lifted a trembling hand and touched her face; his fingers were much cooler than an hour ago. "Why are you crying?"

"I'm _laughing," _Noerwen murmured, hiding her tear-streaked face against his neck.

"Thank Eru, I was beginning to worry," Damrod said. "Oh… and while we're at it, could you please explain to me why there's a metal tube protruding from my chest?"

Legolas chuckled under his breath, left the room and softly closed the door behind him.

FIN

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

1: _Sindarin_ for _linguist_ - the name those in Middle Earth who got to know him gave Tolkien. -- You have no idea how they came to know him at all? Read _Winter Fire _(also here on this site).

2: That tale has just been written and posted, you'll find it here on this site, titled _Morning Singer. _


End file.
